Ruins in a World that Shattered
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: In this night, when three people break into Magnussen's office at the same time, everything could have gone differently. The assassin shoots, miscalculates. The detective dies, doesn't come back. And the doctor is left behind, cannot do anything - can't save, can't stop his life from falling to pieces./AU His Last Vow in which Sherlock dies and John is left to find out about Mary.
1. Part 1

_Hello to everyone!_

_Some time ago, I stumbled across a post somewhere on the internet, a post that said: His Last Vow AU where Sherlock dies from the shot Mary fired at him and John finds out after their daughter is born. And I just thought: Well..._

_This was originally intended to be a one-shot, but it got out of hand and definitely too long to leave it in one piece, which is why I decided to split it up into several parts._

_Warnings: Major character death - basically "His Last Vow" gone wrong. Not much happiness to be found here in general - it is, after all, a story of John without Sherlock._

_I own neither the characters I'm toying with nor anything else._

_Enjoy._

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**_Ruins in a World that Shattered_**

Part 1

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John doesn't have any memory of how long it has been. Dread has settled into his stomach, a cold, tight ball weighing heavily, into his brain, into his heart, dread that this may be it. The pile of horror and unadultered fear doesn't disappear when paramedics rush out of the ambulance, shoving the stretcher along, when they reach A&E, when John is told firmly to wait outside, to take a seat in one of the chairs.

It doesn't diminish when he is indeed left behind, dark red blood still crusting his fingers, drying there, when he is left to wait, unable to do anything at all.

Everything is blurring, in his eyes, in his mind, the corridor, other people passing by, doctors, nurses, patients, time.

Time.

And yet he realises, every process in him seeming to cease, that too little time has passed when someone, still in blue scrubs, straight from the operating theatre, approaches him, slowly, as if not sure he's the one the man is looking for.

John leaps to his feet, unaware of the thumping of his heart in his throat, the light-headedness in his entire body, the swimming of the room around him.

Too little time.

One look is enough.

"No," he croaks, stumbling backwards as if thrown back by an invisible force, by a force making the lump in his stomach and his heart and his throat explode, leaking acid everywhere, burning him from the inside. "No," he repeats, as if the word on its own had any chance of changing what is, now, unchangeable.

"I'm sorry-" The doctor's mouth forms words, words which reach John's ears belatedly. Much later, weeks, months later, he will wonder how exactly that man has known why to approach him of all people, that he is the one about to lose his best friend.

"No," John mumbles again, shaking his head, his knees buckling beneath him. "No, that can't… it… you…"

"I'm sorry," the man repeats, nodding slowly. "There was nothing we could do."

His body forces John to sit down, John forces his ears to listen.

"He lost too much blood and coded before we could even try to stop the bleeding," the man tells John, his eyes a watery dark colour.

Everything John can do in that moment is to concentrate on sucking in air, on performing perfectly normal tasks.

Breathing. Breathing is boring, Sherlock's voice says in his head.

"…attempts of resuscitation… failed… pronounce… sorry…"

No, is the only thought John can still produce. No, it can't be true, it can't be. Not Sherlock. Not Sherlock. Just yet another one of his bloody tricks. No, it can't be.

The graveness in the doctor's voice and the crusted blood on John's fingers tell him otherwise.

~ O ~

His hands are clenched into tight fists, his jaw set, his walking as steady as he can manage when he is finally allowed to see Sherlock.

"Could you… just…," he croaks, and although he himself doesn't even know how he has intended to go on, the doctor showing him the way nods and turns around, leaving him alone, alone in a cold, empty room.

John doesn't know where he is, what kind of room this is, all he needs to know is that it's not a proper hospital room, there's no equipment to monitor vitals, to watch over a patient's condition, to keep someone alive. It's not.

Sherlock doesn't have any right to be here, that thought keeps circling in John's mind as he's stepping closer, very slowly, very carefully. He doesn't have _any _right.

Sherlock's eyes are closed, this time, his lids as colourless as the rest of his face, pallid, waxen. Colourless. Void of all colour.

He doesn't move, of course he doesn't, chest not rising and falling, simply lies completely still, flat on his back, so utterly… white.

White.

"You idiot," John chokes, stumbling closer. Resting a hand on Sherlock's lax cheek, his cooling skin. "Stop pretending. Stop that… right now. Come on, you cock, just stop it."

The words so familiar, so painfully familiar, because he has said them before, more than three years ago. This time, however, the blood sticking to his fingers, accusingly, proves him wrong, tells him that it's… it's…

"Sherlock!" he croaks, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's cheek, sending his limp head lolling to its right side.

Self-delusion, that's what it is, and yet John can't stop himself. "Wake up now," he orders, blinking hard to keep his eyes dry. "Open your eyes, come on. Now, Sherlock!"

He doesn't succeed, not in not dripping tears to Sherlock's unbearably still face, not in waking him up. Of course not.

John knows exactly what he would find if he pressed two fingers to Sherlock's neck, or to his wrist, or rested a hand over his unmoving chest.

Nothing, no breathing, no pulse, no heartbeat.

Blood loss. Cardiac arrest. Pronounced dead.

The bullet hole stares accusingly at John, high in Sherlock's chest, its edges frazzled, not oozing blood anymore, simply… dead.

"Sherlock," he whispers again, shaking Sherlock's lolling head, a futile attempt to rise him, to make him come back.

He doesn't react, doesn't breathe, just remains motionless.

John's world crumbles.

~ O ~

He will never forget how exactly Sherlock has looked in this empty room, stretched out there, ready to be taken down to the morgue.

It is a sight burned into his very brain, saved there forever, never letting go of him.

Not moving, of course, utterly still. Void of all blood, of all healthy complexion. Unnaturally slack, limp, cooling down. The bullet wound, of course, a hole ripped through his best friend's torso, causing massive internal bleeding, enough bleeding to kill him, in the end. Tiny little pricks, in his throat, the crook of both elbows, IVs, having been attached to his body, blood transfusion, sedative, medication, removed after… after.

Thin, emaciated, helpless. Helpless. In need of help, of being rescued, for once, by medical professionals, unable to do their job due to too much blood loss.

His hair slicked back, away from his forehead, leaving more of his face to be… exceedingly colourless.

It's worse than the last time, maybe, with his eyes closed, no blood anywhere, because it seems… less real. Less real. And yet it is, very much so.

One simple shot, in the liver, hitting the inferior vena cava, killing his best friend. That's all it takes.

That's all it takes.

~ O ~

John doesn't remember exactly how he ends up in his own living-room, Mary's sobbing to be heard from the kitchen, Greg pacing in front of him, running his hands through his hair over and over again.

He makes his statement, tells Greg what has happened, about their break-in, about Janine, their bridesmaid, about Magnussen, about Sherlock running off, to the floor above that one, of how John has stayed with Janine, Sherlock not returning, John going after him, only to find him splayed out on the floor, on his back, Magnussen a few metres away, mumbling something about… "shot".

Greg asks him, of course, if he has any idea who could have done _it_, who could have had an interest in shooting Sherlock, in killing him, and John doesn't have an answer for him.

Not that he has thought about the question before, not that he has thought about anything, but Greg is right: Who would have, in fact, had any interest in killing Sherlock? Why shoot him, and only knock Magnussen out? Why not kill Magnussen, the man who blackmails people for a living, as far as John has understood, why Sherlock?

Why Sherlock?

He doesn't think he will ever understand.

~ O ~

He doesn't cry.

What for? What good will it do?

He can't bring himself to cry, maybe. Not… not again. Not a second time. He feels… numb, utterly numb, dead inside.

Mary is doing enough of weeping for both of them. Her eyes are swollen, constantly, red-rimmed, raw, her skin blotchy and her complexion pale.

John doesn't sleep the first night, simply lies in his bed, next to his wife, still sobbing quietly, and can't get rid of what he has seen. What has happened. Can't let Sherlock go. Can't… just can't.

Mary is sobbing again the very next night, the sounds muffled by her pillows, and John suddenly feels as if he can't take it anymore. Any of that.

His best friend, dead, shot, killed, murdered, his wife, lying in their bed, crying, weeping, inconsolable. He himself, simply… numb.

Mary's sobbing ceases for a moment when he slowly extends a hand towards, about to pull her into a hug, to hold her close, to keep her safe, at least, if not Sherlock. Ceases, and then, with a sudden jolt, she turns her back towards him, freezing upon his touch, and only continues weeping quietly.

John doesn't sleep that night, either.

~ O ~

The very next morning, Mary apologises, her voice hoarse, her eyes still swollen. "I'm so sorry, John," she mumbles, avoiding his gaze. "It's just… I… I can't believe…"

When he wraps his arms around her this time, she doesn't resist, but rests her head on his shoulder, her warm breath tingling his neck.

At least, he forces himself to think in that moment, he's still got Mary.

~ O ~

"Why," she clears her throat, gripping her mug more tightly. "Why exactly did he…"

They have not talked about it, John thinks, his memory about how he has called Mary hazy at best, have not talked about why Sherlock isn't ringing their door bell in that very moment, insisting on John to accompany him to solve a case.

"He lost too much blood," he tells Mary as steadily as he is able to, the fingers of his left hand cramping into the fabric of his trousers. "It just… He was bleeding out, and it took too long to…"

"But," Mary begins again, the mug in her hands trembling as she slowly lifts it towards her mouth to take a sip, "but did it hit something… vital?"

John swallows, closing his eyes for a moment. He is distantly aware of the stabbing pain in his heart, distantly, as if it were a pure memory, not reality. Numb, he is so… numb.

"I mean… not his heart, or lungs, or…" Mary's voice is shaking now, too, just as her hands, a bit of tea gushing out, dripping to the floor. None of them gets up to retrieve a cloth to wipe it dry again.

"No," John answers, truthfully. Not Sherlock's heart, no. His own, yes. "It hit his liver and…"

"But," Mary interrupts him again, tears once more glistening in her eyes, "that wouldn't have killed him, would it? Not so quickly, I mean, he would have made it to a hospital, and they would have stopped the bleeding, and…"

Would have, yes. Would have.

"It also hit his inferior vena cava," John adds, remembering the bullet hole ripped through Sherlock. "If the shot had been placed more to his right, he might have…"

John does never finish the sentence, unable to, his throat, his airway, everything, suddenly blocked by an impenetrable lump, threatening to suffocate him.

If the shot had been placed more to Sherlock's right, missing the IVC, causing less bleeding, he might have survived. John would be sitting in a hospital right now, furious at Sherlock for _almost_ dying, furious and impossibly relieved and without any knowledge of how lucky he had been, instead of sitting here, at home, numb, with his wife, grieving for their best friend.

He doesn't need to finish the sentence, because Mary seems to understand. "Oh my God," she whispers, dropping her mug, all colour draining from her face. "Oh my God."

She has reached their kitchen before John can even react, retching into the sink, throwing up whatever she has had for breakfast this morning.

When she is done, John rubbing her back comfortingly, she presses herself against him, in the kitchen, and John simply holds his pregnant wife while she is crying, too drained himself to produce another single tear.

~ O ~

The funeral is horrible.

Everyone has come, it seems, every single person who has ever met Sherlock.

John and Mary, of course. Greg. Molly, clinging to Greg, traces of tears visible in her face. Mrs Hudson, sobbing into Greg's other shoulder, fussing over John as soon as she locks eyes on him.

Sherlock's parents, of course, his mother's face an odd mixture between heartbroken and livid, his father silent and outwardly calm, never letting go of his wife, even giving John a warm, but sad, very sad, smile.

Mycroft, of course, in a black suit, with a black tie, a black waistcoat, a black umbrella. He appears neutral, perfectly composed, if one doesn't look into his eyes.

"You will find him," John wants to make sure once everyone else is out of earshot for a moment. "You will find him, won't you? The one who did this, who…" His voice breaks, can't say the words. Can't say: the one who killed Sherlock. "You'll find him, and you won't let him get away, will you?" he croaks, gritting his teeth.

The look Mycroft gives him at that is long and stern. "I will, I assure you. I will," he replies, and nothing more.

It's enough for John.

Then there are clients, people who have met Sherlock only once, people he has helped. Henry Knight, for instance, the only one whose name John can remember. Major Sholto, John's old commanding officer, whose very life has been saved by Sherlock.

Janine. Even John's own sister, Harry, who has only met Sherlock once.

Donovan, Anderson, others they have worked with.

Journalists are looming outside, keen on the big scoop, keen on interviews, on maybe taking a final picture of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective.

John gets through the entire procedure, somehow. He says a few words, his tie slowly but securely throttling him, things he wishes now he could have said to Sherlock, over and over again, a few words that seem so meaningless, now, after the one they are supposed to be directed at is dead, gone.

Many people say even more words, there is a priest, saying something, a coffin, open, forcing John to stare at Sherlock's unnaturally pallid face again, framed by his dark hair, Mary, clinging to him, never ceasing her sobbing.

A hole in the ground, cold and damp and full of worms, to be filled with a not empty coffin, more words by more people, another kind smile by Sherlock's father, a smile that reminds John of Sherlock so forcefully for a moment that he is afraid of throwing up any second, and then the crowd, scattering, leaving behind the world's only Consulting Detective, leaving him to rot in damp earth.

~ O ~

John spends this night on their sofa, Mary crying in their bedroom, going through all the palpable memories he's got left of Sherlock. His blog entries, the photo album from his and Mary's wedding, pictures taken by a photographer who has turned out to be a murderer, showing a best man who has been murdered. The very few other photos he's got from their time together as flatmates, one in Grimpen, taken by Lestrade, a few from the Christmas party, one with the hat. A picture of him and Sherlock, wearing the hat again, in front of 221B, Sherlock having to explain how he has, miraculously, faked his death, his own suicide.

Two DVDs, one with the video Greg has taken after their very first encounter with Irene Adler, the second one being the video Sherlock has once recorded for John's birthday. Two bloody short videos are everything that remains.

And the waltz, the bloody waltz Sherlock has composed for John and Mary and which he can't even play, because he can't play anything. The scribbled note, for Dr and Mrs Watson, and a recording Mrs Hudson has handed him in a quiet moment. A recording of Sherlock's violin.

And the flat, of course. Or rather, all the stuff that's in the flat, everything that has belonged to Sherlock. John's now. Including his coat, his violin, the hat. The bloody hat.

Pictures from the wedding are the most difficult ones to look at, John decides when flicking through them again. So happy, all of them, so delighted. It is impossible to believe that only a little more than one month has passed since then.

One month of another lifetime without Sherlock.

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_Thank you for reading. Feedback would be very much appreciated, so if you could spare a few seconds... that would be marvellous._


	2. Part 2

_Thank you for your feedback and support!_

_Enjoy._

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**Ruins in a World that Shattered**

Part 2

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Not even two weeks later, Mary has an appointment for an ultrasound scan. She has pulled herself together, it seems, her eyes no longer as red, her nights no longer spent only with crying. Maybe, John muses, it's simply because she doesn't have any tears left.

She insists on him accompanying her to the scan.

While he sits in the chair next to his wife, listening to the doctor explaining to him and Mary things they already know, as a doctor and a nurse, he can't help but think of another doctor, in another hospital, with another patient, a patient whom he cannot save, a patient who dies because of blood loss before anything at all can be done.

He misses most of the man's explanation.

Everything's alright with the baby, he gets that much when they are on their way back, one of Mary's hands resting protectively on her belly.

"Thank you," she says, not looking at him.

John simply nods, concentrating on driving. It is the first time he has left their flat since the funeral, and he has done it for her. It is also, he assumes, the first time since that night that he has felt something stir inside of him again, at the sight of his tiny, unborn child.

If he only will be able to protect his child.

~O~

John doesn't go back to work. He can't, can't handle going out, can't handle the looks everyone is directing at him. Nobody is, probably, but it feels like that, and he can't handle it.

He is replaced by another doctor, and Mary continues to work for that man, her pregnancy beginning to show already. She never complains, never tells John to pull himself together, to start working again, behave like a normal person.

Somehow, this only makes it worse. She is still crying from time to time, so many times, when she thinks John can't see, when everything gets too much. He wants to help her, make it better, but he can't. How could he, when he can't even bring up the energy to cry himself anymore? How could he do anything.

She never urges him, never scolds him, never directs a harsh words at him.

They don't talk much at all, now that he thinks about it more closely. They talk about buying furniture for their child's room, about painting the walls, about Mary's next appointment. Sometimes, she tells him about something that has happened at work while John is busy making tea, or staring out of the window, unseeingly.

He is behaving horribly, he knows as much, is being a terrible husband, but he… he can't help it. There's nothing he can do, absolutely nothing.

~O~

Almost one and a half months have passed when he accompanies Mary to buy furniture indeed. Yellow, she has suggested, clearly trying to rouse him from his stupor, yellow for the walls, because they don't know yet if it's a boy or a girl. Yellow is fine, has been John's answer, completely fine.

Lilac, a voice has said in his head, bridesmaids in lilac. The wall of the room of their wedding reception, yellow, too. Bright, happy yellow.

He doesn't tell Mary anything of that.

Mary's hand is warm in his as she clings to him and he clings to her, and they are walking slowly, looking at armchairs and tiny little beds and cupboards.

John can only think of two armchairs in an empty flat, covered with dust by now, probably, a flat he hasn't been to since the day before _that _night. A flat in which everything theoretically belongs to him, but into which he can't bear to set a foot anymore.

"John?" Mary quietly addresses him. "Are you alright? Do you want to go home? It's fine, if you don't…"

He is supposed to be the strong one, his wife, for God's sake, is pregnant, with his child, and he should be the one to offer comfort, not her.

Everything is so wrong, so very wrong.

"John?" Mary asks, concern in her voice and in her eyes.

All of a sudden, John can't bear it anymore. Bile rises in his throat, barely willing to be swallowed.

He just nods, turning around and almost rushing towards the exit.

~O~

"I'm sorry," he tries to apologise to Mary later, in the evening, when they are both seated on their sofa, watching something on telly John isn't interested in, and to which Mary doesn't pay attention, either.

His hand is on her belly, and it feels good, it really does, and the thought of his child in her manages to thaw the icy lump in his stomach a tiny bit.

Mary wraps her arms around him, and this does feel good, too.

"It's okay," she mumbles into his throat. "It's okay, I shouldn't have… Oh God John, I'm so, so sorry, I…"

"It's not your fault," he replies, croaking past the lump in his throat. It's not her fault. It's not even Sherlock's fault, and that's maybe what's worst about it. John can't even be angry at his best friend for getting himself shot and killed, he simply can't. There's no-one he can be furious at, there's only loss and grief and the lack of knowledge how to go on.

Mary stiffens in his arm, a strangled sob escaping her, and then she's off the sofa, on her way to the kitchen once more. She is crying silent tears while she vomits into the sink and John rubs her back, her face flushed, her hands trembling. "I'm so sorry, John," she chokes in between heaving. "I…"

"Ssh," he soothes her, and simply continues to rub her back.

Mary's sobbing doesn't stop, and with her next breath she apologises for being sick, even in the evening, not only in the mornings.

They cling to each other that night, none of them able to go to sleep, and for the first time in long weeks John finds comfort in the warm body next to him.

~O~

He still doesn't look for a job afterwards.

Greg stops by occasionally, telling them that there's nothing new, that they don't have a single clue, that Magnussen claims not to have seen anything, that he has been knocked unconscious first and that Sherlock has been shot afterwards.

It doesn't matter that this is a lie, and both John and Magnussen know it, because as long as he sticks to it, there's nothing anyone can do.

He doesn't hear from Mycroft, the man never answers his calls, and John doesn't press his chances, not sure if he could bear an encounter with Sherlock's brother.

It's always worst when Mrs Hudson visits. She fusses over him and Mary, sounding cheerful, Mary joining in, but her visits always leave John feeling even more worn out than usually.

They continue with their life, he and Mary, go to appointments with her doctor - a woman, now, after John's unpleasant reaction to her male colleague -, Mary keeps going to work, but it's all… empty. A façade. Nothing more.

~O~

He doesn't know how it happens, but he suddenly is obsessed with the idea of finding and hunting down whoever has shot Sherlock himself.

He urges Greg to give him information, to fill him in on how investigations have been progressing so far, on what they have found out, and Greg reluctantly, very reluctantly, agrees. It isn't much, there isn't much in general. John's statement, of course, what he himself remembers, Janine's statement who hasn't seen the person who has knocked her out, Magnussen's lie. The location of the bullet wound, the possibility that Sherlock himself has seen who has shot him.

Sherlock would have solved it by now, John is sure of it, and it makes him sick. Because Sherlock is dead, shot, killed, and he is here, his life falling apart, falling apart himself, and there's nothing he can do.

He paints the child's room for Mary, in bright yellow that hurts his eyes, and in the meantime mentally goes through everything again that has happened that faithful day, from Sherlock's proposal to Janine to the very moment when John has ventured upstairs, only to find Sherlock bleeding out on Magnussen's carpet.

There is no new information to gain from that.

And nonetheless, he thinks it through over and over again, tries to remember every single one of Sherlock's comments, what he has said, if he has suspected someone, his remark about the perfume.

Claire de la Lune.

He has told Mary about that, right at the beginning, and she has thrown away her bottle, the smell of it making her sick.

There are thousands of people, probably, who wear it, women, mostly. Someone with a personal disorder, John has come up with, preferring a woman's perfume. Or someone applying it on purpose, to confuse Magnussen, to confuse them.

It doesn't make sense, what he comes up with, but it's the best he can do, and it gives him something to occupy himself with during one of those endless days.

Mary doesn't say anything when he begins plastering and cluttering the wall in their living-room with pictures and information and theories, but never with a picture of Sherlock. Never.

~O~

He's slipping, and he knows it.

He doesn't eat, barely talks, spends hours with staring at his wall, at the sheets of paper littering it, thinks about Sherlock, about what has happened.

He misses Mary's next appointment, doesn't come with her, because he can't bring himself to get up from his spot on the floor, to leave his wall behind, to interrupt his pointless pondering.

It's no use, and he knows it. If Greg and the combined forces of Scotland Yard haven't found a trace, if Mycroft hasn't found anything, then how could he possibly see something, notice something?

He can't, and he knows it, and yet he doesn't stop because then at least he's got something to do, something to distract himself from the nagging pain in his gut, from the emptiness that has taken hold of him and refuses to let go again.

~O~

"He wouldn't have wanted that, you know," Mary carefully addresses him one evening while he is flicking through the latest newspaper, trying to find anything, anything at all, that might resemble what has happened in Magnussen's flat, anything that might give him a trace of Sherlock's murderer.

He doesn't even look up when Mary speaks again: "John…," she begins, slowly reaching out for him, resting a hand on his thigh. "I'm worried about you."

John hears her words, but doesn't listen. It's no use, so why should he? Nobody can change anything now.

"John." Mary doesn't give up so easily. "It's been three months. Three months. You spend all your time holed up in here, staring at those bloody pictures and…"

Three months. Has it really? It's Christmas, then, almost Christmas.

His eyes are burning now, his throat narrow.

"Sherlock wouldn't have wanted you to-"

It's too much. Too much.

"I don't care what he wanted!" he pants, exploding, throwing the newspaper to the floor. "I didn't want him to die, and he did, and he's gone now, so… I don't care what he would've wanted! Because it doesn't matter now, don't you see? He's dead, and nothing will ever change that fact!"

His heart is thumping frantically against his ribs as Mary recoils ever so slightly, an impression of unbearable agony on her face. "John…," she attempts to reach him.

He jumps to his feet, fast enough to render himself dizzy, extends a hand towards her. "Don't tell me what he would have wanted," he tells her, voice ever so quiet, not cracking, but barely so.

Because she's right. If there's one thing he's still sure about, then it's that Sherlock wouldn't want what has become of John. Not like that.

His legs disappear from underneath him as he slumps back to the sofa, his body shaking with suppressed sobs, tears, after that one final night, coming to life in his eyes.

Mary wraps her arms around him, holding him tightly, breathing in unison with him, and it helps, somehow, a bit.

John doesn't know how long he is crying into her shoulder, like a small boy, how long she simply remains by his side. He doesn't know why it does help, but it reliefs his heart of the constant weight that has been pulling him down ever since then, or at least eases it a tiny bit.

Mary kisses him, finally, softly, his forehead, his cheeks, once his tears have subsided, his nose, his mouth, and he relaxes against her, into her.

When he wakes up again in the morning, exhausted, the smell of salty tears still lingering in his nose, Mary is still there, wrapped around him, breathing evenly and still fast asleep.

He presses her against him and thanks God for the fact that he's at least still got her.

~O~

He rips off the sheets and newspaper from the wall this evening, puts them into a box and stuffs it into the last corner of his cupboard, and never puts it up again.

Things get better, a bit.

They spend Christmas Eve together, just the two of them, huddled into a blanket and into each other, and when Mary tells him that she can sometimes feel their child already, feel it moving, it's the first time John actually has to laugh a tiny bit.

* * *

_Thank you very much for reading. Please let me know what you thought._


	3. Part 3

_Thank you very much for your comments and interests!_

_(Warning for this part: swearing.)_

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Ruins in a World that Shattered**

Part 3

* * *

He gets drunk on Sherlock's birthday.

6th of January. Epiphany. Of course. Sherlock's birthday.

It has taken him until Sherlock's first funeral to actually find out about his date of birth, and Sherlock has never been very keen on celebrating.

He doesn't get drunk on purpose, it just… happens.

Mary is having a shower, and John can't stop thinking, about his best friend, about his _dead _best friend.

One glass turns into two, two into three, and by the time Mary has finished her extended shower and joins him in the living-room, the world is reeling around him and his vision is doubling already.

It doesn't help, however, because the last time he has been drunk has been on his own stag night, together with, of course, Sherlock.

Mary doesn't blame him, simply wraps him into another hug, ignoring his reeking of alcohol. "I'm so sorry, love," she keeps mumbling, and John keeps nodding against her back. "It's not your fault," he mutters, over and over again, and tries to pull himself together.

It doesn't work. Nothing works anymore, apparently.

"I'm so sorry," Mary repeats, her voice choked.

John swallows dryly, balling the trembling fingers of his left hand into a fist. "He wasn't even forty," he mumbles. "We're both forty, Mary, over forty, but Sherlock…" His voice breaks on the last syllable.

Mary's own tears wet the skin of his throat.

"Thirty-seven," John croaks, his throat impossibly tight. "That's too young to die, isn't it? Thirty-seven."

He doesn't know who's trembling harder, him or Mary. They both are, that's a fact.

"I mean, I thought I'd lost him once, but it's… it's different this time." A laugh tears itself from his throat, crippling his vocal chords. "It's not even his fault, you know. Someone just walks in there, and pulls out a gun, and shoots him, and… he didn't stand a chance." His voice breaks, again. "He didn't stand a chance."

Mary's grip is painfully tight around him.

Another excrutiating laugh breaks free. "Sometimes, in the nights, I think about it. How he was lying there, bleeding to death, while I was talking to Janine one floor below. If I had… If I had heard something, or come up to check on him earlier, maybe…"

"It's not your fault, John," Mary whispers. "It's absolutely not your fault."

He doesn't listen to her. "If I had been faster, and called an ambulance earlier, then maybe he would've made it to surgery, and they could have stopped the bleeding, and he…" When his voice fails him this time, it's final. He can't get out another word.

Mary shakes his shoulders, not too softly. He can't see her clearly, his vision blurring due to his tears and the amount of alcohol in his blood, but her gaze is intent. "It's not your fault," she insists. "John, you mustn't blame yourself. Look at me. It's not your fault, okay? It's not."

"If I had been faster…," he repeats. It must have hurt, pain ripping through Sherlock as the bullet has ripped through his flesh, torn blood vessels and muscles. It must have hurt, and it must have been painful, a horrible, terrifying experience. The only hope he has left is that Sherlock has lost consciousness almost immediately, hasn't felt much of the pain, has been oblivious to the suffering his body has been going through. He doesn't know, though, because he has never had the chance to talk to Sherlock again, has never had the chance to ask him, or to reassure him, or to… John doesn't even know what he would have said, if he had had the chance.

What do you say if it's the last thing you will ever say to someone?

He still remembers how Sherlock's eyelids have fluttered in the ambulance, how his eyes have opened again while at the same time his vitals have kept up their spiralling downwards.

"Oh God," he groans, his head pounding, the only wish in his mind being to escape, to escape all of it.

"It wasn't your fault," Mary repeats with certainty in her voice, still holding him. "Don't ever think that, John. There was nothing you could have done."

What she says is well-meant, but John can't bear hearing it. "There should have been something!" he shouts, angry all of a sudden. "I'm a bloody doctor, I should have…" His outburst is over as quickly as it has appeared, and it only leaves him more drained. "It should have been me, not him," he mumbles, eyes closing. "If I had never let him go up there on his own…"

Mary doesn't reply anything. Doesn't say: Then you'd both be dead. Doesn't say: You can't know that. Doesn't say anything at all.

"I miss him," is the next thing he manages to croak. It's the first time he says something like that, but it's true. It's the shocking, heart-breaking, bloody fucking truth. "God, I miss him."

Mary shudders against him. "Me, too," she whispers. "Me, too." And: "I'm so sorry, darling."

~O~

John sobers up the very next day, tries to ignore his mighty hangover, and tries to forget the painful hole ripped through his heart.

It's in the evening that he overhears Mary on the phone, talking to Greg, possibly.

"He blames himself," she says, hastily, as if not to attract his attention. "He blames himself that he wasn't fast enough, and… Greg, I don't know what to do. He's so… broken, and I can't do anything to help him, it's… Yes," she goes on. "Yes, of course. … No, I can't. Talking to his therapist never really helped him, and… I know what he needs, yes, but that's… Of course I'm sure. He told me, that he hadn't been fast enough and that, if he had been, Sherlock might still be alive. …"

John's throat constricts at her words, and he leaves, quietly, never telling her what he has heard that evening.

~O~

He cooks dinner for her two days later. Pasta, the only dinner-like thing he can cook that's close to edible, and she smiles at him, albeit insecurely. Of course he should haven taken her out, to a restaurant, talked to her there, but he doesn't think he can cope with that already.

Mary eats more than he does, but it's… good. They don't drink wine - Mary because she's pregnant, six months along already, and John because he doesn't want a repeat of the 6th of January.

"Mary," he finally begins, staring at the table. "I know I've been horrible over the last few months, and I… I want to apologise for that. Please know that I…"

She has rounded the table before he can even finish, wrapping her arms around his neck, her baby belly pressed against his side. It feels… good. "I know, John," she whispers. "I know. It's okay, it's okay."

John smiles at the soft flutter in his chest when her breath tingles his neck. "Mary Watson," he mutters into her hair. "I love you."

~O~

Not even a week later, they have another appointment with another doctor, examining Mary, telling them that everything is fine, that their baby is fine.

Fine. For once, somebody is fine.

Mary accompanies John to the graveyard afterwards, both of them approaching Sherlock's headstone with slow steps, heavy, almost hesitant.

Sherlock Holmes, it says, his birth date, date of death.

Date of death.

Mary gives John the time to try to say something, goodbye maybe, again, waits for him farther away, giving him space.

John doesn't kneel down, simply stares at the letters, at the letters confirming that his best friend is dead, and attempts to think of something to say.

"Our baby's fine," is the first thing that comes to his mind, ironically. "Mary's and mine, I mean."

You know, remember when you deduced she was pregnant?, he wants to say, wants to say it jokingly, as if Sherlock were by his side now, rolling his eyes.

"It's not long now," he goes on, hastily. "Three months. Mary believes it's a girl. We don't know yet, we haven't had a scan. We haven't even decided on names yet." He doesn't know, absolutely doesn't, where the bitter-sweet chuckle comes from. "You'd probably find stupid whatever we choose."

That is, once more, when he can't go on. Can't say: 'I wished you could see… everything. You should see Mary, she's huge.'

Can't say: 'You'd laugh at her, and… I miss that, you know. Your comments. Your remarks. I think I…'

John clears his throat, gaze fixated on the letters. He has to, has to say goodbye. Finally. "I miss you, Sherlock. We all do. We miss you terribly, you git." And: "I… I would have forced you to be my child's godfather, do you know that?"

Because he cannot imagine anyone he'd rather trust with his child. Still can't.

John's eyes start burning as he bites his lower lip. "I think I'll miss you for the rest of my life. I know, you'd find it stupid, probably, but it's not as if I could help it."

He's rambling, he notices that much, rambling although normally he never does. Time to leave, probably, before he suffers a breakdown, out here, in front of his best friend's grave. "I wished we'd never taken that case," he croaks, both hands clenched into tight fists. "I'll…" Once more, his voice breaks. "I'll tell our child about you, you know? About the best man, the bloody best man I've ever known. My best man."

His best man.

His best _friend_.

~O~

Things are getting better. Slowly, but gradually.

John at least puts some effort into applying for another job, as a GP, not in a hospital, not in A&E. He doesn't think he could stand that. Not yet.

Mary keeps swelling, seven-months pregnant by now, and John spends as much time with her as possible.

He is getting better, he thinks.

At least he's not getting worse.

~O~

"I thought about Greg," he suggests one evening, his left arm around Mary's shoulder who is about to doze off on their sofa.

"What?" she mumbles.

"Godfather," he explains, in spite of his dry throat.

For a while, Mary doesn't say anything. Then she sits up, fixating her gaze on him, staring directly into his face. "I didn't think you'd want to pick anyone," she says very carefully.

Of course John knows what she means. "Greg's one of my oldest friends," he finally croaks, doing his best to remain calm. He has thought about this for a very long time, pondering options, pondering the meaning of being a child's godfather, pondering not picking one at all. "He's a good man, and he'll always be there for him. Or her."

Mary smiles a sad smile and nods a tiny bit. "Of course," she tells him. "Of course. Greg will be perfect, don't you think?"

Both of them don't say what's obvious: Greg Lestrade is a good man, but he's not the best. He's one of John's oldest friends, but not his best. He will be perfect, he will indeed, but there isn't really another option.

~O~

When John carefully broaches the subject to Greg, one evening in Greg's favourite pub to which John has managed to drag himself, Greg is beyond surprised.

"John, that's…," he begins, only to end with: "Are you sure you want me?"

"Yeah," John replies, taking another sip from his drink. Not beer, no alcohol at all. "Yeah, course I'm sure."

Greg hesitates for a long while. "I'm not Sherlock," he says finally, his voice hoarse.

John barely keeps himself from flinching. "I know," he replies flatly, nonetheless attempting a quick smile. "I wouldn't want you to be. You're… you're Greg, you're going out with Molly, and if you accept, you're going to be godfather of Mary's and my child. So… will you?"

Greg downs his pint with one large gulp. "I'd be bloody honoured."

~O~

Finding a name - they have decided they don't want to know the gender, rather prefer to be surprised - is much more difficult than finding a godfather.

They talk about it in the evenings, in front the telly that is babbling in the background, or during breakfast, or while they have lunch together.

Of course John has thought about Sherlock, as a name, for his son, but… Mary seems reluctant, tears brimming in her eyes again, and John finds himself to be reluctant, too. That name is inseparably connected to John's best friend, John's _dead _best friend, and giving it to their child, to their son… it would both remind them, at all times, of what has happened, of Sherlock's… death.

He is absolutely sure, the longer he thinks about it, that he could not handle that, and going by the tears in Mary's eyes, she could not, either.

In the end, he simply finds out that he doesn't have any preferences, not really. Healthy, of course, no matter whether boy or girl. And there's still time, after all, two months, at least, although Mary appears as if she is close to exploding already.

Two months, at least, the date they have been told being one of late March. Enough time, to find a name, to buy furniture, to prepare themselves. Enough time.

~O~

Since Mary has stopped working, John finally forces himself to get a job. It's easy, much easier than he has assumed, to find something in a surgery not too far away from their house. He never goes there by bike, however, Sherlock's deduction - and Billy Wiggins's further comments - still ringing in his ears, making it impossible to even look at his bicycle without feeling this familiar sting in his heart. He takes the car, or walks. It's fine, it really is.

The job itself is… not boring. He doesn't allow himself to call it boring. It's… uneventful. About ten to twenty patients every day, complaining about sore joints, a cold, a persistent headache. Nothing demanding, really.

It's… fine. It has to be fine. Has to be, because there's really nothing else for him to do.

~O~

They have already completely furnitured the child's room when John pays his first visit to Mrs Hudson and Baker Street since… then.

Their child's room has been cramped full of stuff nobody has ever needed, most of which Mary has thrown out straightaway, but now it's nice, really, bright and happy, with an armchair, a bed and two cupboards, and a cradle.

The sight of armchairs and the memory of stuff nobody needs reminds him of a flat in which everything belongs to him, and in which he hasn't set a foot in what feel like ages.

He doesn't tell Mary, for once, where he's going, doesn't tell anyone, doesn't even go to see Mrs Hudson first. He's still got his keys, of course he still does, and tries to be very quiet when opening the front door.

Locking eyes on the so familiar staircase makes his stomach turn, reminds him of the two years Sherlock has spent abroad and John has spent thinking him dead, reminds him of happy hours, of breathless giggling, and of days full of sorrow and loneliness, without Sherlock, before Mary.

Dust has accumulated everywhere, dust on the table, dust on the laptop still lying on the table, dust on one armchair. One armchair.

_It was blocking my view to the kitchen._

He still remembers Sherlock's words, of course he does, as if it had been yesterday.

The violin is resting in its case, on the floor next to the sofa, dust on top of it. The curtains are drawn - Mrs Hudson's doing, probably -, and everything seems… ethereal. As if it wasn't a flat, wasn't a place to actually live in, but rather a… memorial. A monument for, a reminder of the world's only Consulting Detective.

He finds the chair upstairs, in his old room, full of boxes and old books and cases, dust accumulating there, too. Everything is so painstakingly familiar, and painstakingly empty. Painstakingly full of Sherlock, and at the same time, utterly void of Sherlock.

John can't hold back the tears he doesn't want any longer when he sits down in his old armchair, his battered, loved, familiar armchair.

His eyes are red when he leaves again a while later, quietly enough not to startle Mrs Hudson, and he doesn't take anything with him except for the board of Cluedo he has found lying beneath his armchair.

~O~

When he returns home this evening, Mary is nowhere to be seen, not at first, but quiet noises are to be heard from the bathroom.

"Mary?" he asks carefully as he knocks and tries to enter, only to find the door locked.

Mary emerges a few minutes later, complete with baby belly, her eyes puffy, her nose red.

"Mary," John repeats, akin to shocked. "What's going on?"

She doesn't look him into the eyes. "It's nothing," she mumbles, avoiding him, tottering over to the sofa and complicatedly sitting down on it, staring out of the window, into the dark.

John doesn't allow himself to be fooled so easily. "What's wrong, love?" he wants to know, sitting next to her, one hand on her shoulder, rubbing over it softly, the other one on her belly.

"I'm just being stupid," she mutters, her nose apparently clogged. "Really, John, it's nothing."

"You were crying," John corrects her gently, pulling her closer. "It's not 'nothing' when the woman I love is crying."

His words bring a tiny smile to her face, as well as more tears into her eyes.

"Hey," he tries to comfort her. "You can tell me, you know. Everything."

Mary stifles a sob and nods towards his throat, cuddling into him. "I know," she whispers.

Nonetheless, she needs a few minutes until she is ready to tell him. "It's nothing, really," she repeats, but then adds: "I was tidying up a bit, you know, dusting and everything, the shelves here, and then she… she moved, John, again, and I know that's wonderful, but I… I had that blasted photo album in one hand, and then she moved, and I suddenly realised that Sherlock's never gonna see her, and she's never going to meet him, and…" She is crying again, John can feel her wet tears prickling on his skin, and his own heart picks up on speed. No, their child won't, their son or daughter will never meet Sherlock.

"He was your best friend," she murmurs quietly, snivelling, "and my friend, too, and… Oh God, John, it's all my fault!"

John begins to rock her, softly, forwards, backwards, forwards, the rhythm calming himself and, gradually, her, too. "It's not your fault, Mary," he mumbles into her hair, kissing it softly. "Don't say that, love, alright? We'll tell him or her about Sherlock, won't we? It will be as if our child knew him, and we'll always remember him…"

Mary doesn't stop weeping until much later.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please be so kind to tell me what you think._


	4. Part 4

_Thank you for your lovely comments and your continued interest!_

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Ruins in a World that Shattered**

Part 4

* * *

Time passes slowly.

Mary is growing, her belly is, their child is fine. John is still going to work, doing his job, reassuring old people that they will be fine, that it's just a cold, just a headache, no brain tumour, that everything will be fine.

Everything will be fine.

A comforting mantra. And horrifyingly untrue.

They are moving on, Mary and him, and yet sometimes he notices Mary's red eyes, red from crying, again, or catches a glimpse of her hastily shoving the photo album back into the shelf when he enters the room without her seeing him at first. Sometimes he wakes in the night and can't go back to sleep, simply keeps lying there, Mary's arm spread over his midriff, and wonders about things he better shouldn't think about. Wonders if there is anything, anything at all, after death. If maybe Sherlock still is somewhere, up there, a tiny molecule, watching John. Wonders if he's simply… gone, nothing left of him except for rotting flesh and brittle bones, covered by earth and soil and surrounded by worms. Imagines that some day, years in the future, this graveyard will be something else, and people will dig around there, for whatever reason, and find maybe remnants of a skull, and a small, metal bullet, the bullet that has ended Sherlock's life and that will then, years and decades later, finally come free, will finally be released by his flesh while it is rotting.

His own thoughts make him sick, and more than once he leaves their warm bed, replaces Mary's arm on the mattress and stumbles into the bathroom, splushing water into his face and staring at the image in the mirror, trying desperately to get those picture out of his head. It works, most of the time.

Some nights, he goes back to bed, propped up on his left elbow, watching Mary sleep. Sometimes, he ever so softly places a hand on her belly, feeling their child's movements, and finds it oddly comforting. Their child, a little human being, perfect in every way, a human being they have created, and they will love and watch grow up and develop.

If it's a good night, the thought remains comforting; if not, his brain wanders on, to Sherlock's parents, imagining his best friend as a child, loved by his parents who have expected to watch their son grow up, and grow old, not be murdered at the age of thirty-seven.

John hates those nights.

Sometimes, Mary dreams and talks in her sleep. John likes listening to her slurred words, likes it because it gives him a sense of normality. Of being fine.

She never remembers her dreams when he asks her in the morning, but it's fascinating nonetheless.

"'s not my fault," she says once, her brows knitted together. And: "…didn't intend that…"

"…liver's perfectly safe," she slurs another night, and John wonders for a second if she's dreaming about Mr Richards, his old patient from the very same day who insists on experiencing intense pain in his liver.

"Tha's not wha' I am," she murmurs, at the same time tightening her grip around John's fingers, and he has to smile, despite himself.

Mary, his wonderful wife. And their child.

He wouldn't have known what to do without them.

~O~

He doesn't feel prepared when Molly calls him, telling him that Mary has attempted to phone him, without success, that she then has called Greg, who has of course informed Molly - his girlfriend now, after all -, and that she is only ringing him now to inform him that Mary's on her way to hospital, her water having broken.

John immediately leaves the patient he has been dealing with alone, rushes out of his office, gets into his car and speeds to the hospital where Mary is, and where Greg and Molly will maybe, maybe, soon be joining him.

At first, he doesn't understand why they have come, too, pacing together with him; they are joining him, they tell him, on Mary's insistence.

Why Mary has insisted on that, John only understands a while later, when the white walls are coming closer threateningly, reminding him of the last night he has spent in a hospital, waiting, for good news or for bad, only receiving bad.

And only now he understands that Mary has wanted him not to be alone, to have someone to support him with him, and he feels a wave of gratitude flutter in his chest.

Besides, Greg will be the child's godfather.

Support is necessary, if not always, at least in the moment when a doctor approaches John, bringing him news. Good or bad.

~O~

Their daughter is beautiful, perfect and beautiful and healthy, and John can't get enough from looking at her, or holding her, or tracing his huge fingers over her tiny ones. She is perfect, a perfect miracle, and he loves her from the very moment when he first sets eyes on her, and can't imagine that this will ever be any different.

Mary is exhausted, sleepy, but crying and laughing at the same time.

"We really need to think of a name," she mutters before closing her eyes, snuggling into her pillow. "Don't take her out too long, okay, love?"

John presses a firm kiss to her forehead and then grins at his daughter, securely placed in his arms, resting against his chest, and mumbles: "I love you."

Greg and Molly are over the moon, making a fuss about the little girl with the little bit of blonde hair on her head, with her tiny fingers and her large blue eyes, and John even allows Greg to hold his daughter.

"Greg, this is my daughter," he says, a smile on his face. "Darling, this is Greg, your godfather. And this is Molly, his girlfriend. They'll always be there for you."

Both Greg and Molly's smiles flicker for a second before John's daughter gurgles happily and attracts all of their attention again.

It's only on the way back to the hospital room where Mary is hopefully sleeping and getting some rest that John, arms wrapped protectively around his little girl, supporting her head, keeping her warm, allows himself to register Sherlock's absence for a moment.

"He would have loved you, too," he whispers to his daughter who doesn't understand yet that his voice is breaking.

~O~

Rose - they name her Rose, in the end, after John has ruled out Caroline - is a lovely baby. She hardly ever cries, sleeps through the nights, smiles a lot.

John is utterly in love with his daughter. Going to work takes even more effort now, because it means that he will have to tear his gaze away from her, that he will have to leave for a few hours and only see her again in the evening.

Of course he keeps a photograph of her in his wallet, or two, or three. He simply can't get enough of her.

Whilst Rose is a baby perfectly easy to handle, not loud and never complaining, it's Mary who does her fair share of crying. John feels helpless, is helpless, doesn't know what to do. She doesn't talk to him, not really, but he is not stupid. Whenever she thinks he isn't in the room, or isn't paying attention, entirely focussed on Rose, her gaze clouds, becomes hazy, her eyes swimming in tears sometimes, always fixated on something in some distance, like simply staring at thin air.

John is not stupid, and something is going on. He doesn't know what, not yet, but he is determined to find out.

~O~

Sometimes, he imagines how it would have been if… if… how it _should _have been.

It's Sherlock sitting next to him in the hospital corridor, then, not Greg and Molly, his brows knitted together because of John's frantic pacing, huffing under his breath. "For God's sakes, John, sit down!" he exclaims, then, and suddenly John is back again, in his daughter's room, watching her sleep, and there is no Sherlock anywhere.

Mary has her mobile ready when Sherlock holds Rose for the first time, John is hovering nearby, a smile plastered to his face, ridiculously happy, absolutely sure that Sherlock, despite having no experience with babies whatsoever, will not drop his daughter.

"It… I…," he says when Rose starts wiggling and bubbling at the same time, shaking her little hands. The look Sherlock directs at him is priceless, and he can't help but giggle. "John!" Sherlock protests, jumping to his feet. "John, what do I do? Did I do it wrong? John!"

Mary takes one photograph after the other, John only giggles harder, ready to take Rose again, and then… Rose is still there, wiggling and bubbling, but Greg is the one holding her, and not Sherlock.

Not Sherlock.

"You okay?" Greg mumbles, for one moment tearing his gaze away from the baby in his arms.

John clears his throat. "Yeah, sure, of course," he says, and the fact that he answers Greg's question with three different words says enough, tells Greg that he isn't. Not really, though.

Sherlock, of course, sneers when he is storming into Rose's room, announcing: "John, come on, case…" Only to stop dead in his tracks, crinkling his nose and staring at John incredulantly. "John, what is this horrible odour?"

John tosses the wet nappy into the bin and chuckles. "She's a baby, Sherlock," he explains, finishing dressing Rose and picking her up. "Look who's here, Rosie," he mutters, walking over to Sherlock, who rolls his eyes dramatically. "Really, John," he says, "we don't have time for that now. Lestrade texted me, case…"

He shuts up when John hands Rose over to him, busying himself with rearranging clean nappies and the box of baby powder while he silently smiles to himself.

Sherlock doesn't shut up because he's never been talking, John doesn't smile, and everything is back to dreary reality.

~O~

Mary is a wonderful mother. Caring, funny, loving. John adores watching her and Rose together, and for a few moments he can almost feel happy. When Mary's busy with Rose and John watches them, his wife unaware of his attention, she seems glad, too. Almost glad. There's still, however, that sparkling in her eyes, not a spark of joy or bliss, but rather a sad one, as if the tears never leave her alone properly.

One evening - Rose is two months old already - John decides to bring up the subject. "Are you alright?" he asks Mary softly while she snuggles against him on the sofa, simultaneously trading a hand through her hair.

"Yes," Mary answers too quickly. "Yes, of course, love. Why shouldn't I be?"

John simply exhales slowly. "You don't seem alright," he says carefully.

"I'm fine," Mary insists, stiffening a tiny bit in his grip.

This time, this one time, John won't let her get away with that. "No, seriously. What's wrong?"

Mary sits up, disentangling herself from him, but doesn't look him in the eyes. "Nothing," she mutters, very unconvincingly.

John's fingers don't tremble as he gently pulls up her chin, caresses her soft skin. "Hey," he whispers, not ceasing his movements. "You know you can tell me, right? Do you… is it too much for you? With Rose, and the house, and…"

"No!" she yelps, attempting a shaky smile. "No, it's not, no! God, John, just… leave it, alright?"

Another tear falls from her eyes. John's heart lurches. "Hey," he repeats softly. "Don't cry, Mary, it's okay. You can tell me everything, you know that, don't you?"

Although she doesn't resist when he pulls her close, she doesn't really give in either, her body remains… tense.

"Mary," he tells her quietly while she attempts to control her sobbing. "I love you, Mary. Don't cry. It's okay."

Finally, she nods against his shoulder, snivelling. "I'm sorry," she slurs, rubbing her hand over John's back.

John holds her even more tightly and when they eventually end their hug, he wipes away the final tears from her cheeks. "Tell me what's wrong," he begs, looking at her firmly, even attempting a smile. "I mean, how could I be happy when you're clearly not?"

It is the wrong thing to say, he realises within split-seconds as Mary pales visibly, pressing a hand to her temple. "Are you," she chokes, not meeting his gaze.

This time, she startles John. "Am I what?" he wants to know, not daring to reach out for Mary again.

"Happy," she sobs, now wrapping both of her arms around her shoulders. Hugging herself.

Happy. Is he?

That he doesn't answer tells her enough, he assumes.

"Do you miss him?" is her next question, almost urgently, her gaze, this time, completely and entirely focussed on him. "Sherlock?" she prompts when he doesn't answer, can't talk due to the lump in his throat. "Do you miss him?"

They both know there is only one answer, there can only be one, and yet…

"Yes," John forces himself to breathe, and Mary's weeping intensifies. "Oh God," she slurs in between. "Oh God, oh God, oh God…"

When he attempts to pull her close, to hold her, she flinches, and recoils. John freezes.

A small wailing noise from Rose's room spares both of them the duty of having to talk about what has just happened.

~O~

Sometimes, when he is sitting in his office and waiting for the next patient, or when he's on the tube, on his own, surrounded by foreign people, making foreign noises, talking gibberish, he wonders.

He wonders what it must have been like, Sherlock's final minutes. Whether he has felt something, as he has lain dying on the operating table. Every single time, he scolds himself for this thought - of course Sherlock hasn't, hasn't felt much after the initial shock wave of pain before losing, mercifully, consciousness. Panic, maybe, in the ambulance, and an echo of pain. But then, after his eyes have closed there - nothing. Nothing.

He can't help it. Can't stop thinking, in some moments, can't because he's the man he is, because he's a doctor.

From the ambulance directly into the operating theatre. Blood transfusion, blood pressure monitoring, cardiac monitoring. Intubated, of course, unable to breathe for himself any longer. Fluids, to compensate for blood loss, for dropping blood pressure.

He thinks about the final minutes in the operating theatre. Blood pressure dropping even further, to a level almost undetectable, heart weakening, despite epinephrine shots, giving out, eventually.

Cardiopulmonary resuscitation, of course. Trying to fill in for a heart that has stopped, has ceased.

He imagines the flaring of the ECG in the background, the lolling of Sherlock's head with each compression, his pallidness because of the blood loss.

The concentrated frenzy, doctors trying to bring their patient back to life.

How long has it been, he wonders sometimes, sitting in the tube, staring unseeingly. How long have they tried before… If they had kept on for a longer amount of time, then maybe… If they had…

No, he then forces himself to correct this. They have done everything they could. Not their fault. Not theirs.

He wonders nonetheless. Have it been thirty minutes, or sixty? Or less, with the fact that Sherlock wasn't going to come back this time having been so obvious that there has been no reason to continue CPR for a prolonged period of time?

He doesn't even know if he wants to know, and that, somehow, makes it even worse.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought._


	5. Part 5

_Enjoy! (Well, as far as that's possible...)_

* * *

**Ruins in a World that Shattered**

Part 5

* * *

Mary has just stopped breastfeeding Rose when John comes home from work one day to find an unexpected visitor in their only armchair, Mary sitting on the sofa, a tissue pressed to her face.

John's throat tightens immediately. "Mycroft," he croaks. "Is there… a special reason for your… visit?"

He tries to share a quick look with Mary, asking her if everything is alright, if everything is fine, if Rose is alright, how long Mycroft has been here, what he wants, but she doesn't even look into his direction.

"John," Mycroft says almost casually and gets up from the armchair. "Do sit down."

John crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I don't want to sit down," he clarifies, staring at Mycroft defensively.

Mycroft, of all people, Mycroft Holmes, seems to hesitate for a short moment, before nodding, solemnly, and reclaiming his seat. "Very well," he states.

John doesn't move from the very spot he's standing in. "So," he begins, "what's going on here? Why are you here, Mycroft? What do you want? And Mary, why are you crying again? Did he…"

He doesn't know what he has intended to say. Hurt her? Insult her? Not Mycroft Holmes, perfectly polite and well-mannered.

His heart quickens its pace, doubles it, when he finally dares to say out loud the one thing: "Is it about him?" he wants to know, not saying Sherlock's name. Not in this context. "Do you… have any news?"

"News," Mycroft repeats, his tone neutral. On the sofa, Mary is making a visible effort of pulling herself together.

"So," John croaks, tensing every single muscle in his body he is aware of. "Do you know who shot him?"

Shot him. Shot Sherlock. Killed his best friend.

Mycroft doesn't say anything.

John grits his teeth and makes one step forwards, towards Mycroft in his chair. "Do you!" he shouts.

Mary flinches, Mycroft raises his gaze.

"Yes," is the only thing he says.

~O~

John's entire world implodes in that moment. Mycroft _knows_. Knows. Knows. "How long," he whispers, panting, practically able to feel the blood pumping through his veins with more than double speed. "HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN!"

Mycroft doesn't answer this time, simply keeps looking at John.

"How long- Christ. Jesus." All of a sudden, he feels as if he can't get enough oxygen, as if the world around him is spinning, and turning, and… "And you never bothered to tell me?" he yells, squeezing his eyes shut. "God, you never bothered to tell me who it was that shot my best friend? Not in almost one entire year? Christ. I- I… I don't believe this, I really don't."

The room is eerily quiet without his shouting. For a brief, a very brief, moment he wonders where Rose is, whether she hasn't woken up yet by the loud voices.

Nobody says anything.

"Go on," John demands. "Go on, tell me now. Who was it?"

Nothing.

"Who. Was. It?"

If such a thing could ever occur with Mycroft Holmes, John almost believes that the man appears uncomfortable.

"John," he says, quietly. "It would be best if you sat down and…"

"I will NOT sit down!" John barks, his entire body trembling with fury. With fear. With madness. "Tell me now. Who was it. Who!"

And still, Mycroft doesn't answer.

John barely manages to contain himself enough not to lurch at Mycroft and force the words out of his throat with his bare hands. "Fine," he growls, breathing harshly. "Fine. Brilliant. Don't tell me, then. Don't tell me. Then why are you even HERE?"

"John…," Mary dares to interrupt, almost carefully, but John won't have it. "No!" he cuts her off. "Don't say anything now. Just… don't."

His next question is so silent that it's a miracle Mycroft has even heard it: "Do I know him?" he asks, his voice low, much lower than usual.

And finally, finally, Mycroft bloody Holmes stirs. "Yes," he replies calmly. "Yes, you know her."

And his eyes flicker to Mary.

~O~

His first impulse is to break into hysterical laughter.

His second impulse is to strangle Mycroft Holmes.

His third impulse is to destroy the entire house.

What he does, in the end, is to look at Mary, huddled into the sofa, her eyes red from crying, who is returning his gaze.

Returning his gaze.

There is sadness in her familiar blue eyes, sadness, and grief, and guilt, and… and…

John's voice fails him. "No," he makes, stumbling backwards. "No, tell me that's… tell me…"

But she doesn't. She simply looks at him, he remembers her behaviour ever since, her questions, her…

"No," he whispers again, almost knocking the telly of the cupboard. Smashing it off, seconds later, in fact, viciously, throwing it to the ground, not in the least satisfied by the noise it makes when breaking.

"No," he repeats, in an attempt to convince himself. Mycroft is as still as a statue, and tears are running over Mary's face. "I'm so, so sorry," she whispers as she has done so many times before, but now, this time, it makes sense. It makes perfect sense.

"No," John croaks again, the image of Sherlock, bullet lodged into his pale and unmoving chest, suddenly in front of his eyes, clear as if had only been a day.

A final "no" is everything he manages before blackness dims the edges of his vision.

~O~

John doesn't remember how exactly he succeeds in not passing out.

The next thing he knows is that he is sitting in the armchair, a glass of… water? Vodka?… in his trembling hands, Mycroft and Mary both studying him.

"Tell me it's not true," he chokes hoarsely, not looking at either of them. Not, in particular, addressing either of them.

None of them replies anything.

John smashes the glass to the floor, growling. Mary flinches, Mycroft remains unmoving.

"Why," he whispers, digging the nails of his left hand into his palm. "How."

Mycroft's gaze strides to Mary for a quick moment, and then he begins to explain.

~O~

This afternoon, John doubts his sanity. Or longs for insanity, maybe, because it would be easier to bear than what he is experiencing.

Mycroft is talking, telling him something, telling him things John can't believe, he doesn't want to believe. Things that cause his entire world, his entire life to simply… collapse, boneless, without leaving anything for him.

Mycroft talks, John forces himself to listen, and Mary simply sits there, huddled into herself, now silent tears on her cheeks. And doesn't protest, doesn't contradict.

"So you're telling me," John finally chokes, his lips curled into a bitter, acidic smile, "you're telling me that my wife - my bloody wife - is an ex-assassin who was blackmailed by Magnussen and broke into his office to kill him, and when Sher…" It's on his best friend's name that his voice breaks. Of course. He can hide behind fury and anger because of everything else, but he can't ignore the tight feeling in his throat that automatically accompanies thoughts of Sherlock dying. "And when Sherlock happened on her," he forces himself to continue, eyes glued to the wall behind Mycroft's head, "she shot him instead and let Magnussen live?"

Mycroft seems to hesitate another moment before nodding.

For a few seconds, John can't breathe. "Why," he mouths, slowly suffocating on the truth of it all, as he turns to Mary again.

Mary's lips are trembling and her eyes an ugly, blood-shot red, but she doesn't answer. "I didn't…," she finally mumbles.

"What!" John shouts. "You didn't what?"

He is still panting heavily as Mycroft's voice cuts through the tension in the room. "She didn't intend to kill him," he says, and John can't believe it.

"No, John, let me explain," Mycroft tells him, reaching out a hand. "Your first and main aim was to keep your past hidden from your husband," he addresses Mary. "In doing so, you were prepared to cause collateral damage, preferably to Magnussen. When my brother walked in as you were about to shoot Magnussen and you learnt that your husband was in the same building in which you were about to commit murder, you had to act. You needed to ensure my brother's silence, or else your secret would be betrayed. And you needed to dispose of the only witness of your deed. But instead of making a kill shot, you aimed at his chest, trying to avoid heart, lungs, spleen, stomach, fully counting on his surviving and keeping his silence. But you miscalculated, Mrs Watson, didn't you? You hit my brother's inferior vena cava, causing massive internal bleeding, and so, in the end, killed him." Mycroft takes a deep breath before his voice becomes almost scaringly soft. "Am I right?"

"Yes," Mary's whisper comes from the sofa.

John starts chuckling.

"John…," she makes, insecurely.

"No!" he shouts, erupting all of a sudden. "You. Don't say anything. Just… don't."

"You phoned the ambulance," Mycroft suddenly says, still scrutinising Mary. Or… whoever she is. Whoever she was. What… "To increase my brother's chances of survival," Mycroft adds. "And yet, they weren't fast enough."

"Yes," Mary confirms again.

Silence spreads in the living-room.

~O~

The first thing that brings John to his senses, at least close to, is a child's wailing.

Rose.

Mary is on her feet in the same instant as John.

"No," John chokes. "Don't lay a hand on my child."

~O~

He almost collapses when he enters Rose's room, his body trying - and failing - to take in what Mycroft has told him.

While he paces in the room and tries to calm Rose down, he clings to her for dear life, as if she was the only thing he's still got left.

After all, she is, somehow.

She falls asleep, after a while, but John can't bring himself to go downstairs, to the living-room where… where _she _is still on the sofa, probably, and where Mycroft is, stirring up her past, exposing her.

This afternoon, hunched over his little daughter's bed and never taking his eyes off of her peaceful face, is the first time he cries in months. Cries over the ruins of his life.

~O~

"Why," is the first thing he utters once he has forced himself to leave Rose, and to face the truth, and his demons.

Mycroft doesn't interfere, this time, and it is her who answer. She has managed to pull herself together, by now, her face still splotchy, but the tears no longer falling. "I wanted to protect you," she mumbles, not looking at him.

John forces himself to swallow. "Protect me," he croaks, summoning every ounce of self-composure, of his memory of being a soldier he has ever had.

She sniffs and looks out of the window. "You couldn't know about my past," she whispers, "or you'd leave me. And I… I couldn't bear that thought. Losing you, I mean. And… I knew it would break you."

He slowly counts to ten before answering. "Instead you chose to murder my best friend. Our… Jesus… our best man, on our wedding day."

Her face is void of emotion all of a sudden when she finally looks at him. For a moment, John wonders what she is going to say. I didn't mean to kill him. I did it to protect you. It wasn't my intention to… I'm sorry.

"He was my friend, too."

It doesn't cause John to snap, it doesn't make him want to shout, or to strangle her, or to crush things. It simply makes him feel… drained. Empty. Numb. Utterly empty.

"And you," he addresses Mycroft, oddly calmly. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Mycroft looks almost guilty for a moment. "Because she was pregnant, John, with your child, and there was nothing I could have done without compromising your child's safety, or its well-being, lest alone yours. Now that…"

"Since when do you care about my child," John mutters, his fingers, loosely lying on his thigh, trembling. "Or my well-being."

Mycroft's eyes don't lose their serious expression, but there is something in them, something John can't define, can't describe, or explain. "Because Sherlock would have cared," is what Mycroft answers, and it is the most emotional and at the same time insensitive thing he has ever heard Mycroft say.

~O~

There's one more thing John has to ask. "What… What's going to happen now?" he says, doing everything to keep his voice cold, detached, clearing his throat nonetheless. "To… to her, I mean. Will you…" He can't finish. Doesn't even know what he has intended to say.

Once more, Mycroft looks close to uncomfortable. "She has ended my brother's life," he finally says, talking as if Mary - she - wasn't in the room at all. "I will not let her get away. She will have to answer for what she did, although I am prepared, if you should agree with it, John, to take an… unusual course of action."

John purses his lips, risking a quick glance towards his… yes, what exactly is she? A murderer. An assassin. The woman he has married. The mother of his child. The woman he has, once, fallen in love with. The woman who has killed his best friend. "So?" he makes.

Mycroft casts his glance downwards for a second. "A person that you are not to know, but that does deserve, I assure you, nothing less, will be framed for and convicted of the murder of Sherlock Holmes. Your name, your wife's and your family will entirely be kept out of this, will under no circumstances be involved, and the entire matter will be handled with the utmost discretion. You, Mrs Watson, will concede to accepting a mission the MI6 will send you on and therefore return to your previous line of… work as your punishment."

"I understand," Mary says quietly, her face without any expression. "Will I… Will I see my child again?"

Mycroft gives a thin smile. "That will depend on your success and, of course, on your husband's wishes."

John licks his dry lips, barely feeling coherent anymore, barely understanding what they are talking about. Mission? MI6?

Then, Mycroft turns to him, addressing him: "I will of course provide for a nanny, if the need should arise, as well as for any accomodations you might require for leading a normal life with your daughter, including nursery school, boarding school, university."

John doesn't think his brain is still listening. He can't take it in, can't take in any of these words.

"Now, Mrs Watson", Mycroft raises his voice again, and John just wishes he would stop calling her by this name. "Will you accompany me freely and surrender on my terms?"

It sounds melodramatic, so melodramatic.

Mary simply swallows, thickly and painfully, and nods.

~O~

"May I… will you give me some time? With Rose, to… to say goodbye," is the next thing she asks, even before getting up from the sofa.

Mycroft simply looks at John.

John clears his throat and doesn't quite know what to say. Doesn't know what to believe anymore. He has seen Mary and Rose together, has seen the love in Mary's eyes, but what… what if it's been a lie, just as anything else has been? What if… "Will you kill her, too?" The words are out of his mouth before he can help it.

Mary physically recoils, and for a split-second, anger and hurt mix on her face. It stirs something deep in John, nonetheless, something… "I'm sorry," he mumbles, and Mary nods. "She's my daughter," she whispers. "I've been feeling her inside of me for nine months. I… No."

John nods, and she gets up and walks upstairs.

~O~

"Why," he asks Mycroft again.

Mycroft's left eyebrow rises.

"Why are you doing all this?" John tries to be more precise, his voice tense, his hands tense. "This… keeping our names out of the press. Being so careful about… everything. About me, about her. About…" His voice breaks, despite his best intentions not to let it.

"I'm not doing it for you, or for her," Mycroft replies, coolly, and yet close to lividly. He hesitates, takes a deep breath, the lines on his face deeper than they have ever been. "I'm doing it for Sherlock."

John grits his teeth, swallows. "Sherlock's dead," he chokes out, forcing himself to say the words. Because it's true, and it's all wrong, and his entire life has just shattered completely.

Mycroft's face contorts into an ugly grimace. "I am aware of that fact, thank you, John," he says, his voice low, gravelly. He pauses for a few moments, and when he resumes talking, John suddenly realises that this is as close as Mycroft Holmes will ever come to losing control. "If you must know," he announces, a slight tremble in his voice, radiating from fury, probably, "if it were entirely up to my choice, I would have had her imprisoned until she delivered the child and then made sure that she was never going to see the light of the day again for what she has done to my brother. Kill her? Maybe. Myself? Maybe. Make her pay? Definitely."

John doesn't flinch at Mycroft's words, nor does he doubt them. There isn't much he can think of saying. "You really love him." Foolish, so foolish, probably, but now that he's said it, he can't take it back.

Mycroft stares at him for a moment and then gets to his feet as Mary returns, brushing invisible dust off of his suit jacket. "Love is a dangerous disadvantage, Doctor Watson. I assume you have learnt that much by now."

John freezes while Mary looks at Mycroft, nodding. "I'm ready," she says, her voice small, but composed.

He is still sitting where they have left him when the door has long since closed behind them, and any remnants of John's formerly ordinary life have vanished.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Thoughts?_

_And: two parts left._


	6. Part 6

_Thank you for your comments and your interest, despite the rather sad content..._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Ruins in a World that Shattered**

Part 6

* * *

It's shortly after Rose has been born, and they are lying in bed, comfortable, their baby sleeping next door. The clock says it's not even twelve o'clock yet, but John is beyond tired. The night before has been rough, with Rose waking and crying far more often than she normally does, and John has spent the better part of it pacing, mumbling, trying to calm his tiny daughter. The day has been full of work at the surgery, with far more patients than usually, and now he is exhausted, wanting nothing else but to fall asleep as quickly as possible inside of the warm cocoon of his bed.

Mary is fidgetting next to him, but somehow, he can't bring himself to care properly, just tries to wrap an arm around her shoulders.

"John," she says, quietly.

"Mh," he groans, not even opening his eyes.

"John," she repeats, then pauses. "There's something…" Her voice cracks, but she pushes on: "Something I need to tell you."

"Mh," he grumbles again. "Can tell me tomorrow."

The mattress shifts as she sits up, quickly. "No, now," she insists, breaking contact with him. "It's… it's important. John, please."

He gives a sigh, wrenches his eyes open, blinks lazily at his wife who isn't, in turn, looking at him. "What's wrong," he mumbles, doing his best to sound interested and not too sleepy.

Mary remains silent long enough for him to almost fall asleep again. "The night…," she begins, halting once more. "The night Sherlock…"

Everything inside of John freezes, his stomach churns, and wakefulness lurches at him suddenly.

"The night he died," she croaks, biting her lips while John stares at her. "I… it was… I…"

No, John decides, no. He doesn't want to talk about that now. Not now, not in the night, not this night. "Mary…," he begins. "Can we not… Can we not do that now?"

Mary takes a hasty breath and nods frantically, then shakes her head. "No, I… there's something I need to tell you," she insists, inhaling shakily again. "The night Sherlock died…"

John feels his body cramping, tensing.

"… the first thing I felt was relief that you were okay," Mary rattles off.

For a few seconds, John doesn't know what to say. "It's okay," he croaks finally. "It's okay, okay…"

Mary doesn't relax into his hug, he feels as if he can't breathe upon remembering that one night.

Neither of them finds any sleep that night.

~O~

The world has darkened around John when he finally snaps back to reality.

His body is numb, his legs are aching, his muscles cramping.

Sherlock. Mary. Not Mary. An assassin. A murderer. Sherlock, dead. Mary, killing him.

The house is silent, the silence screaming at John, reminding him of all the situations in the months since… of Mary's odd behaviour, of her crying, of her tears. Tears because she has known, because Sherlock…

A cry of pure anguish rips itself from his lips and he picks up the vase next to him, hurls it at the wall.

Rose starts wailing.

Rose.

He can't stay here. He can't.

Within a few minutes, John has packed, uncoordinatedly, has thrown a few things of his into a bag, more things of Rose, her dummy, things she needs, and then picks her up, carefully, grabs the bag and her baby seat and leaves this house.

~O~

He books a room in a cheap hotel somewhere, miles away, Rose resting next to him on the bed, slumbering peacefully after almost one hour of babbling nonsense.

Of course he can't sleep.

Everything he has believed has been wrong, he doesn't have anyone, anything left. Except for Rose, the child born from the woman that has killed his best friend.

As soon as he closes his eyes, he sees Mary, their wedding, Mary crying. Mary with a weapon, aiming it at Sherlock's chest, pulling the trigger.

Sherlock, in front of Bart's, blood streaking his face and hair. Sherlock, on the floor of Magnussen's flat, bleeding, shot, in the ambulance, bleeding internally, in a hospital bed, dead, dead from a shot to the liver, to the chest, nicking his inferior vena cava.

A shot Mary has fired.

So John doesn't close his eyes but keeps them fixed on Rose, on his tiny daughter.

He doesn't think he will ever be able to sleep again.

~O~

Life has to go on.

John doesn't think. If he starts thinking, he will collapse, he will give up. He stays in the hotel room, cares for Rose, does everything for her. Goes for walks, talks to her, plays with her. Does everything to distract himself. Does everything in order to _not _think.

He sleeps with the help of heavy sleeping pills, risking not hearing Rose because he knows he has to sleep, one day, that he can't go on like that forever.

He drinks, some evenings, drinks far more than he ever used to. Rose doesn't scold him, of course she doesn't, just smiles at him, not knowing anything about what has happened.

How his life has crumbled.

It is making him crazy, he knows that much, is driving him insane, and he is sure that the only things that keeps him going is the knowledge that Rose needs him.

~O~

He doesn't know _how _he manages to keep going. There are hours, when he doesn't watch Rose, or doesn't play with her, in which he simply sits, and stares, into nothingness, wondering how exactly it has happened that his life has gone to hell so quickly.

Neither does he know how long it's been when Mycroft calls him, his voice cool and smooth as always. "She is about to leave for her mission tomorrow," he informs John. Nothing else.

"Do you…" John clears his throat, his fingers clenching around his phone. "Do you expect me to come and… talk to her?" he finally wants to know.

"Oh, I do not expect you to do anything," Mycroft replies calmly.

John can hear his own breathing, his own heartbeat, nothing else. "I need to drop Rose off," he then says. "Give me an hour. Send a car."

"I will," Mycroft confirms and ends the call.

~O~

Mary looks… healthy. Not well, but not sick either. John doesn't allow himself to dwell on anything else.

"How's Rose?" is the first thing she asks, not looking at him.

John's vocal chords won't obey him at first. "Good," he finally succeeds in breathing. "She's… fine. Misses her mother, but… good."

She nods, still not raising her gaze. There are probably a hundred things she wants to say, there are a hundred things that come to John's mind, but… he can't.

It hurts, it hurts so much, now that the initial shock and his disbelief have passed, have been replaced by cold and merciless knowledge which is unforgiving, unwavering. She is his wife, the woman he has sworn to love and care for, the mother of his child, and he cannot help it, he cannot stop loving her, not on cue.

And that's what hurts the most, what threatens to tear the shreds of his hearts to pieces. He hates what she has done, and wishes he could hate her, but he can't. She has been lying to him, all the time, has tried to keep her secret, has killed his best friend. Has killed his best friend. Sherlock. Has killed Sherlock.

It feels like a betrayal, what his heart is doing despite his brain telling him otherwise, but he… he can't. Not yet.

More than anything else he longs for Sherlock to be at his side, for his friend's support, however meagre and unusual, for his steady presence, for… simply for Sherlock.

"Don't…" Mary's voice breaks, but there are no tears in her eyes. "Don't tell her about… about me if you have ever loved me. Please, John."

He doesn't answer, grits his teeth.

Now, Mary directs her glance at him, pleadingly. "John, please. It's the only thing I ask of you. Please, for me."

For her. For Rose. For himself.

Finally, he nods.

Mary slumps visibly as she sighs, relieved, even grateful.

For a long while, none of them says anything.

John licks his dry lips, purses them, clenches and unclenches his fists. "How," he mouths eventually. How has it felt, firing a bullet at a man who has assumed her to be his friend. How has it felt to watch Sherlock collapse, bleeding, shot, by her own hand. How has it felt to know that her shot has killed him, in the end. How has it felt to watch John attempt to cope with his best friend's second death.

"I never wanted to kill him," she whispers, quietly, defeatedly.

John's heart threatens to give out in his chest. "But you did!" he shouts, panting, grabbing the chair he is sitting in. Control, control, control.

Mary closes her eyes. "Yes," she admits. "Yes, I did." When she looks into his eyes, tears are brimming in hers, but she blinks them away, her face set in stone. "What do you want to know?"

John shrugs a bit, clearing his throat. "Just tell me," he croaks.

Mary takes her time before she starts talking, and when she does, she forces herself to remain composed, not to break into sobbing in front of him. "He didn't expect me," she says. "Thought I was Lady Smallwood. And when I turned around and…"

~O~

John can feel Sherlock's surprise, his shock, vibrate through his own body as the woman in black, pointing a gun at Magnussen, turns around. Mary. Mary Elizabeth Watson. Mary. Aiming her gun at Sherlock, now.

The shock is evident on his face whereas Mary's is almost perfectly neutral, her hand not trembling. "Is John with you?" she asks, knowing the answer, already, probably, knowing that, of course, John is here, too, if Sherlock is.

It makes John flinch when Sherlock attempts to answer, his voice shaky, far too quiet: "He's… um…"

"Is John here?" Mary demands, and he wonders where he has been in that exact moment, whether he has been trying to wake Janine, not having the faintest idea of what is going to happen.

"He's… he's downstairs," Sherlock replies, his voice still so terribly unsteady.

John wants to close his eyes and weep.

Mary nods, back in the room with Sherlock and Magnussen, still holding her gun in her steady left hand.

"So, what do you do now? Kill us both?" Magnussen interjects, and Mary doesn't waver.

John's heart lurches as Sherlock starts talking again, almost softly, addressing Mary: "Mary, whatever he's got on you… let me help."

Help. Consulting Detective. A former assassin who is being blackmailed.

John wants to scream and grab him, shove him out of the room, shield him, as Sherlock shifts his weight, about to approach Mary, maybe to disarm her, to stop her.

He can't, of course he can't, he's damned to listen, no longer having the power to change anything. To stop anything from happening.

Mary's thoughts are spiralling in her head, she tells him curtly, she knows that she has to stop Sherlock from telling John what he has seen, and she knows that, despite it being the perfect, rational solution, she can't kill Sherlock and Magnussen now, now that she knows that John's here, too, being framed for double murder if she does it. And knows that she _can't _kill Sherlock. She simply can't.

And yet, he makes a movement towards her.

"Oh, Sherlock," she tells him, doing her best to sound calm, to sound… professional. "If you take one more step, I swear I will kill you."

And Sherlock, being Sherlock, has to shake his head, even smiling a little. "No, Mrs Watson," he tells her.

Mrs Watson.

"You won't," he adds, so softly, and takes that one step.

She will, and she does. She's run of options, so quickly, and she… just acts.

She pulls the trigger, watches the bullet logding itself in his chest, below his ribs, not hitting, she prays, his lungs, or his spleen, or his stomach. A shot not meant to kill. A shot as indecisive as herself.

The shock on Sherlock's face, utter shock, makes John reel and want to vomit, just as does the image of dark, so dark, blood starting to pour out of the hole, soaking his shirt.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mary whispers, close to tears now. Why, why, why does he have to be here, now? Why? "I truly am."

Sherlock looks at her, swaying a bit.

"Mary?" he asks, and it's the last word she'll ever hear him say.

When she has taken care of Magnussen, knocking him out, not daring to kill him now because John is still here, Sherlock has already collapsed, has lost consciousness, lying flat on his back, hardly breathing, as it seems to her.

She dials the ambulance, her hand shaking now, telling them to hurry, and… leaves.

~O~

John can't find words. Can't find coherent thoughts. Can only think of Sherlock, how he has found his best friend, his fear, terror, shock. Grief, shock, fury, later. Grief. Loss. Heart-break.

Can a heart break? If it can, then his has done so.

He can't find a single word to express anything at all.

"I… I aimed for his liver," Mary's quiet whisper interrupts him. "I thought… I thought he would live if I aimed for his liver and phoned an ambulance. When you called me and… I didn't… I never thought I'd hit his inferior vena cava and he…" She swallows. "There's nothing I've ever regretted more, John."

He can't. He just can't. How is he supposed to listen to her, to even talk to her? The woman who has murdered his best friend. It doesn't matter, not really, that she has that it has not been her intention. It doesn't change the fact that Sherlock is dead.

Nothing will ever change that.

"I see his face in the nights," she goes on while John remains stoically silent. Bereft of words, of his voice. "The surprise in his eyes, and the shock, and… Every night I hope that the dream will change, that you will come upstairs, or that I go to him and ask for his help and never have to do that… Or that I tell you, who I've been, and that you forgive me, somehow, despite everything, that I'm not losing you…"

John chuckles. He doesn't know where it's come from, he doesn't know where these words come from: "You know, Mary," he breathes, "the thing is… I don't care that you lied to me. Not anymore, maybe. You lied to me and stopped at nothing to keep up your lie, instead of trusting me and telling me, and… and you shot him. You shot Sherlock to keep your secret, and that's…" His voice fails him, and he gives up on attempting to put the storm of emotion devastating him into words. "No," he manages, more a sound than an actual word, but it has to be enough. Just no. Not Sherlock.

She doesn't ask for forgiveness. There is none. Not for Sherlock.

Mary nods slowly. "I know," she whispers. "I was going to tell you so many times, but... I couldn't. I couldn't tell you, because then I would lose you, and I would hurt you even more and..."

John simply stares at her as she takes a shaky breath. "I couldn't find the words and somehow, I never told you, and then Mycroft..."

"Yes," he makes, and then silence.

~O~

Mary is merciful enough not to break into tears in front of him. "Where," he begins after ages, "where are you going now?"

She shrugs and even smiles, non-committally. "Oh, undercover, in Eastern Europe," she answers.

John nods again, his hands balled into tight fists. What is there to say? What is he supposed to say to an ex-assassin who has shot his best friend? Nothing, maybe. "Well," he croaks. "Good... good luck, then."

He is already on his feet when Mary's voice stops him once more. "John," she says, the way she's always said his name, and his heart is bleeding. "There's one more thing I'd like to ask of you."

She doesn't have the right to ask anything anymore, he thinks, just as she hasn't given Sherlock mercy. He turns around.

Now there are tears in her eyes, and John doesn't look at her face.

"If you've ever loved me, and if you love our daughter," she begins, and her voice breaks. It's an ugly sound, of course it is, and it tears at John, but he can't just walk away. He can't. She's still the woman he has married, the woman he has fallen in love with. "Don't tell Rose. Tell her I died... in a car accident or something. Please. John."

His breathing comes in short gasps as he remains frozen and wonders why, why he should fulfil her wish.

Why.

Then he nods, and the movement seems to take everything out of him.

Mary sobs, loudly, sob. "Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you. Tell her I love her, please, will you?"

He manages to nod again, and makes to leave.

But he can't. He can't, not yet, turns around again, looks at her, takes in her blonde her, her teary eyes.

"Just one more thing," he asks, his voice choked, "one more thing. Did you... Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me who you are? Why?" Why did you have to shoot Sherlock, why did you have keep up the lie, is what he intends to say, but his voice gives out on him. He can't.

She doesn't have an answer to that question.

~O~

Mycroft's man takes him to 221A, to Mrs Hudson, and to Rose, and Mycroft informs him curtly of the next step.

Mrs Hudson is sobbing and clings to him. "Oh, John," she whimpers. "Why didn't you tell me? God... An aneurysm. Mycroft phoned me, he told me..."

She keeps crying into his shoulders while he stands frozen, failing to order his thoughts, failing to stop hurting. Aneurysm. His wife is dead, then, officially, Mycroft's doing. She is dead, and nobody ever has to know what has really happened. No-one but him and Mary.

"First Sherlock, and now Mary...," Mrs Hudson wails on. "John, I'm so sorry..."

He doesn't know if she's crying because of Sherlock, or because of Mary, or because of him. It doesn't matter, nothing does, anymore.

He's lost his best friend, he's lost his wife, he's lost his life.

How is he supposed to go on, without anyone, without any ray of light?

His legs grow weak and he stumbles to the wall, leaning against it, Mrs Hudson still clinging to him. "You could come back, you know," she snivels.

John nods, but knows that he can't. Not here, not in Baker Street, maybe not even London.

If he wants to go on, and he _needs _to, for his daughter, then he needs to escape. Away from here.

"I mean, I always feared that Sherlock...," she cuts herself off, sniffing again, "but Mary... and the poor child, John, the child!"

John doesn't listen, can't listen.

He knows all of that, he does, knows that he's lost. Lost.

The wailing of a baby relieves John of Mrs Hudson's weight, and her crying, she pulls herself together, he pulls himself together and goes to his tiny daughter, picks her up. Breathes in her scent. Tries not to remember that he's the only one she's got now, no-one else.

And Greg, maybe, her godfather.

Godfather.

* * *

_Thank you very much for reading._


	7. Part 7

_Here we are then._

_I would like to apologise for both the delay and my not replying to reviews - time's been rather... short lately._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Ruins in a World that Shattered**

Part 7

* * *

John waits for Sherlock to wake up in hospital, doesn't leave Sherlock's hospital room. The relief when Sherlock's eyes flutter open finally takes his breath away and he is shaky, so shaky, and ridiculously happy.

"Mary shot me," Sherlock says as soon as he is able to talk coherently, as soon as he is coherent, and John doesn't believe him at first.

"Mary shot me," Sherlock repeats, and Mary doesn't meet John's eyes and doesn't protest, and finally, finally, he accepts the truth.

And his world shatters.

His world shatters, but at least he's still got Sherlock.

~O~

John waits for Sherlock to wake up in hospital, doesn't leave Sherlock's hospital room. The relief when Sherlock's eyes flutter open finally takes his breath away and he is shaky, so shaky, and ridiculously happy.

Sherlock doesn't say anything, doesn't remember who shot him, doesn't recall the final moments before he has lost consciousness.

John is fine with that, he really is, as long as Sherlock is alive, and close to safe, and Mycroft's men are looking for the shooter.

Mary gives birth to a wonderful daugther, they name her Rose and make Sherlock her godfather, no matter if he wants to or if he doesn't.

Sherlock still doesn't remember, Mary doesn't say anything, but John notices the looks his wife is giving his best friend, and it makes him uncomfortable.

Sherlock dies a few weeks later, is poisoned, and no-one knows why, or by whom.

Mary doesn't have the look again.

~O~

John waits for Sherlock to wake up in hospital, doesn't leave Sherlock's hospital room. The relief when Sherlock's eyes flutter open finally takes his breath away and he is shaky, so shaky, and ridiculously happy.

"Mary shot me," he says, still barely coherent, with Mary and John in the room.

Mary and John laugh, Sherlock recovers and doesn't mention it again.

Sherlock doesn't say anything, states that he can't remember. He doesn't remember.

John is fine with that, he really is, as long as Sherlock is alive, and close to safe, and Mycroft's men are looking for the shooter.

Mary gives birth to a wonderful daugther, they name her Rose and make Sherlock her godfather, no matter if he wants to or if he doesn't.

A few weeks later, Mycroft stops by, and he exposes Mary, tells John that it has been her who has shot Sherlock, that she has talked him into keeping his silence, that Sherlock has.

John's world shatters, he is furious at Sherlock, and shocked and furious at Mary.

His world shatters, but at least he's still got Sherlock.

~O~

John doesn't stay with Janine that night. He orders her to stay put and rushes after Sherlock, leaping into the room just as the assassin, clad in black, turns around, wearing Mary's face.

"Whatever he's got on you," Sherlock says, "let me help."

"Mary," John says.

Mary shoots them both and Magnussen.

~O~

John doesn't stay with Janine that night. He orders her to stay put and rushes after Sherlock, leaping into the room just as the assassin, clad in black, turns around, wearing Mary's face.

"Whatever he's got on you," Sherlock says, "let me help."

"Mary," John says.

Mary shoots herself, and John's baby.

~O~

John doesn't stay with Janine that night. He orders her to stay put and rushes after Sherlock, leaping into the room just as the assassin, clad in black, turns around, wearing Mary's face.

"Whatever he's got on you," Sherlock says, "let me help."

"Mary," John says.

Mary shoots Magnussens, and then surrenders.

John visits her in prison, talks to her, she gives birth to a wonderful daughter, and finally, finally, he forgives her.

Because he's still got Sherlock.

~O~

John doesn't stay with Janine that night. He orders her to stay put and rushes after Sherlock, leaping into the room just as the assassin, clad in black, turns around, wearing Mary's face.

"Whatever he's got on you," Sherlock says, "let me help."

"Mary," John says.

Mary doesn't shoot anyone, but explains.

Sherlock urges John to leave Mary, and he does.

He moves back to Baker Street, and has his daughter every second weekend, on the case-free weekend.

He's fine with that.

~O~

John doesn't stay with Janine that night. He orders her to stay put and rushes after Sherlock, leaping into the room just as the assassin, clad in black, turns around, wearing Mary's face.

"Whatever he's got on you," Sherlock says, "let me help."

"Mary," John says.

Mary doesn't shoot anyone, but explains.

John leaves Mary, and Sherlock talks him into going back to her. He does, and he forgives her, after many, many tiring months.

Mary gives birth to a wonderful daugther, they name her Rose and make Sherlock her godfather, no matter if he wants to or if he doesn't.

John is fine with that, he really is.

~O~

John doesn't wait for Sherlock to wake up. He spends the night in a hospital, next to his best friend's dead body, and can't believe what has happened.

He grieves, and can't believe it, but it has to go on.

Mary gives birth to a wonderful daugther, they name her Rose and make Greg her godfather, because there is no Sherlock anymore.

Rose is wonderful, simply wonderful, and the light of John's life.

Months later, Mycroft stops by, and he exposes Mary, tells John that it has been her who has shot Sherlock, that she is a former assassin, that she has shot his best friend.

John's world crumbles, and he loses everything.

This, he decides, is the worst outcome possible, and this is what has happened.

~O~

John attends a funeral, a funeral Mycroft has arranged for and planned, with a corpse Mycroft has provided, John assumes, a funeral for his wife who isn't dead, a funeral that feels as if he is burying his own life.

Everybody is crying around him, everybody except for him.

He can't.

What for?

"We'll always be there for you," they tell him, and he nods, mechanically.

"If you need anything," Mycroft tells him, and he nods, again.

He doesn't feel, not anymore, simply... functions. Functions.

He is a high-functioning sociopath, or wishes he was.

He doesn't know how to go on, but he has to. For Rose, for his daughter.

~O~

Sherlock begins to fade in his memory. His comments are less snarky, his voice sounds less powerful, his eyes are less intense.

John doesn't like it, but he can't help it. He tells Rose stories of her godfather, of her second godfather, the one who has died before she has been born, tells her about cases.

He tells her stories of her mother, of their wedding, of how he had proposed to her. He never mentions Mary's past, or what has really happened to her. He can't, and he has made a promise.

A promise.

There's another promise, one he has given Rose, not in words, but one he owes her, and that's why he keeps going.

He will always love her, his daughter, and because he's the only one she's got left, he doesn't give up.

He's okay with it, as long as he doesn't think. And that's something he never does.

Sussex, that's where he moves with Rose, thanks to Mycroft's financial support. He takes what he can get, for Rose, and even accepts Mycroft's money. A nice, little village, with nice, boring people, not asking questions about a single father, a widower, with an infant daughter. Nobody asks questions, of course not, they all think he's grieving for his wife.

It's so much more.

Sussex, away from London, away from where's lost everything.

He's fine, he really is.

~O~

Sometimes he can still smell the flavour of Mary's cooking - not very professional, but she's always liked cooking, and he's always eaten what she's managed to produce -, and his throat narrows at that.

Sometimes, he still wakes in his bed, reaches over, to the other side, only to find it empty, painstakingly empty, void of his wife, of the version of his wife he has loved.

Sometimes, he can still see Mary and Rose together, Mary smiling widely, happy, smirking at him, Rose giggling.

Rose _is _giggling, but she's sitting in her high chair, not in her mother's arms.

Sometimes, he reads about someone who's been murdered in the newspaper, and he's about to call out, to alert Sherlock, to alleviate his boredom. He always manages to remember before he actually says a word.

Sometimes, when the house he has bought is eerily quiet, he thinks, for a split-second, that there are the sounds of a violin, the sounds of someone playing the violin. There never is.

Sometimes, when it's warm outside, and the sun is shining and Rose is happy, there's a bee flying past him, back to its hive, and he... Suddenly, tears spring to his eyes when Sherlock says, right next to him, from his armchair in 221B: "Of course I'll retire some day. Move somewhere, keep bees. Who knows", and then he's here again, somewhere in Sussex, his fidgety daughter on his lap who's screaming: "Bee! Bee!"

John swallows and closes his eyes for a second. "Yes, bee," he answers, and grabs Rose more tightly.

Sometimes, he dreams everything is well.

He always wakes, and it never is.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_(You are free to imagine that it actually _was_ a dream.)_


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